


Soft Shall Ye Sleep

by theTelltaleNarrator



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brianna's POV, DON'T WORRY claire is alive and well, Frank and Claire are dysfunctional af, Other, neither of them appear directly at first but that might change, teenage Roger is more reasonable than you'd expect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:08:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25983349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theTelltaleNarrator/pseuds/theTelltaleNarrator
Summary: The year is 1958, and ten-year-old Brianna Randall’s world is falling apart. Her mother has been declared missing, her father is in prison, and she’s being sent across the ocean to live with her godfather, a distant stranger named Reverend Wakefield. And worst of all, nobody is willing to tell her what’s actually happening.One cold, foggy morning, Mrs. Graham and the Reverend drive Bree and Roger to a strange hill called Craigh na Dun. Roger has a notebook, a map, and instructions to take Brianna to a place called Lallybroch. And a list of notable dates in the 18th century.The rest, as they say, is history.
Relationships: Brianna Randall Fraser MacKenzie & Roger MacKenzie Wakefield, Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Comments: 79
Kudos: 186





	1. Strange People in an Old House

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a multi-chapter fic! I've put off posting this first chapter for a while, partly because it's not as polished as I'd like it to be, but also because I'm worried I'll lose motivation to keep writing... I've never posted long-form stuff online in real time, so please be patient with me!

Sometimes, Brianna caught the Reverend’s housekeeper staring at her like she was a ghost. The old woman would avert her eyes when she realized Brianna was staring back—she went back to her dusting and sewing like she hadn’t been gaping like a kid at a circus. But she _had._ And she kept doing it, every single _day_ , even when Brianna had been living in the Reverend’s house for an entire week and shouldn’t have been new or interesting anymore.

Everyone here acted strange. There was the old woman, who wasn’t the Reverend’s wife, and Roger, who wasn’t the Reverend’s _son_ , even though his last name was Wakefield and he called the old man “Dad.” Brianna thought that was confusing at first, but Roger’s real parents were long dead—he was an orphan.

_So was Brianna._

Bree shook her head like a wet dog whenever _that_ thought crossed her mind. She _wasn’t_ an orphan! Her parents were still alive. And they loved her, and they loved each other, too. They just weren’t _here_ right now. That didn’t mean they were gone forever. Forever was... forever!

Still, they were gone _now_. And whenever Brianna asked the Reverend why that was, he looked like he knew, but he refused to tell her anything. She’d managed to get a bit more out of the social worker, who told her that Daddy was “put away.” _Put away!_ As though Brianna was a baby who couldn’t understand what “imprisoned without parole” was.

And Mama?

Now, _that_ was a question no one even tried to explain away using little-kid metaphors. Everyone always said the same thing: “We’re looking.”

So Brianna was stuck in this old, faraway house where people gave her weird looks and Roger, the only other kid around, was seventeen, which barely even _counted_ as a kid. He was young enough to be awkward around Brianna, but still old enough to be incredibly boring. All he ever talked about was how he wanted to be a history professor at Oxford. Vaguely, Brianna knew that Daddy had been a professor at a school with that name, but…

...but thinking about Daddy made Brianna's stomach hurt. And she didn’t want Roger to be “put away,” either, even when he was boring and historical, so she tried not to think about anything and went about her daily routine, which mostly involved taking books off the Reverend’s shelves and immediately putting them back.

Yes, everyone here was strange. Including Brianna, probably. Maybe that was why everyone in the Wakefield house was so uncomfortable around her. Reverend Wakefield had known Daddy and Mama for a long time, so he had an excuse to be uncomfortable. Roger was a teenager—that was an excuse for everything.

Mrs. Graham was another story entirely. She had no reason for strangeness, yet she was the strangest of them all.

\---

It was the last week of April when the housekeeper finally said something to Brianna. Unfortunately, that something was, “May I see your palm?”

Brianna, halfway through breakfast, nearly choked on her scrambled eggs. “What?” she gasped, eyes watering. “ _Why?”_

“Oh—well, the lines on your hands can predict your future… should ye read them properly, of course. Like—like a fortune cookie, ye ken?” Mrs. Graham wiped her hands on her apron and took a seat across the table from Bree, offering her a tentative smile. “Just a wee bit of fun."

The old woman said it casually, like she was suggesting they play a nice game of checkers. But Brianna heard the slight quiver in her voice—it didn’t take a fortune teller to know that this was a serious matter to the old woman.

Brianna reluctantly extended her hand across the table, palm up.

Mrs. Graham’s smile immediately became warm and grandmotherly, the kind of smile that made Brianna relax on instinct. And when the old housekeeper traced the creases on Brianna’s hand with the very tip of her finger, Bree found herself feeling more intrigued than nervous. She watched the movements, mesmerized. Mrs. Graham looked like she was reading from the pages of a curvy sort of book. Could lifetimes really be written in the folds of Brianna’s skin? Had she been carrying her future in the palm of her hand this whole time?

Maybe her hand was like a map— one that could tell her where Mama was. Or even better… why she and Daddy weren't where they were supposed to be.

“This is the life line,” Mrs. Graham murmured, running her finger along the curve below Brianna’s thumb. “See how it’s interrupted here… and there?” She glanced up. “Your mother’s was much the same, as I recall—choppy, but strong. I had thought it was because of the war… she was a combat nurse, ye ken?”

Brianna nodded, a lump rising in her throat. _Mama was always so, so brave._ She swallowed and blinked furiously, not wanting to cry in front of a stranger.

“Yours has fewer breaks, but they’re closer together.” Mrs. Graham touched one end of the line. “You’ve had a short life thus far, my dear, and a difficult one. But the lines on a person’s hand… they dinna show for certain what the future will hold, aye? They are only signposts, guides showing what might be, and what might not. Ye can always change your fate, should ye try hard enough.” She folded her hands over Brianna’s clasping them tightly. “We shall do our best to keep the rest of your life line straight and sure, won’t we, lassie?”

Brianna kept blinking, but it didn’t do much good—her cheeks were wet and salty. She nodded anyway. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Graham.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is a reference to the original lyrics of the Skye Boat Song (not the Stevenson rewrite). I'd really encourage you to look up the history of the song-- it's fascinating!
> 
> I have a couple more chapters written, and the whole fic planned out. Let me know if you'd like to read more!


	2. Echoes of Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brianna hears Mrs. Graham arguing with Reverend Wakefield.

Mama and Daddy used to argue in their house on Furey Street, and back in those days, Brianna found their fights annoying at best and upsetting at worst. No matter how bad it got, the sound of muffled voices had never actually made her _afraid._ Not back then.

Now, in the old manse, things were very different. When Bree heard grown-up voices from her bedroom, she didn't just get irritated; she became frightened. It was unexpected in a lot of ways. Her whole body seemed to freeze up, and time stood still, the room around her shrinking and growing so she felt completely trapped.

The sounds from downstairs were muffled, yet she could hear every word.

“Has she not grieved enough? The loss of her mother’s body and her father’s soul—now ye’d hand the lass yet another burden to bear?” _That was the Reverend._

“It wouldna be a burden to learn the truth!” _Mrs. Graham._ “To find out she has somebody to return to, someone willing to give his very life for hers—can ye no’ see—?”

“Aye, I _can_ see! I can see the choice ye’d force upon her—between hope of her mother’s return and the safety of a parent she canna possibly—”

“Ye’d be willing to make the choice on her behalf?”

Brianna tried to block the noise with her pillow, but it was no use; even if she couldn't make out the specific words, the anger and frustration still echoed through the house, and _t_ _hat_ was the real problem. That was what mattered more than anything else.

It was the fighting. She knew it. Mama and Daddy had been fighting that awful night, and Brianna ignored them and went to sleep, and when she woke up, there were policemen everywhere and people were asking questions about her without even _looking_ at her, and then she was being whisked back and forth between offices and strange houses and police precincts, and if Mama and Daddy hadn’t fought, if they’d just _stopped_ fighting—

She knew that things were different here; Mrs. Graham and the Reverend weren't married like Mama and Daddy were. But knowing didn’t seem to matter much. So when the argument didn't stop, and the knowing began to feel less and less important, Bree finally decided that enough was enough—Mrs. Graham might be weird, but she was also pretty nice, and she didn't deserve to disappear like Mama had. If she and the Reverend couldn't come to their senses on their own, Brianna would have to make them. 

Like Mama always said— _if you want a job done, you'd better bloody do it yourself._ She was usually talking about penicillin and vaccines, but Brianna figured the wisdom applied to other situations, too.

She clambered out from under her covered and slipped into the darkened hallway, so tense she barely noticed the coldness of the wood floor on her bare feet. She, Roger, and Reverend Wakefield all had bedrooms on the second floor, just like the Randalls had had in Boston, but the manse wasn’t as cozy as _home._ The hallways seemed far too long to be inviting, especially the hall that led to the stairwell, which was dark and seemed like the kind of place that had ghosts. Even though Brianna knew ghosts weren't real, and could always see where she was going, the vast depths of the hallway made her worry she would never reach the end. It was the kind of scariness that made her run faster, that made her heart hammer in her ears. It was also the kind of scariness that was so distracting, she didn’t notice Roger’s shadow until she’d slammed right into him and knocked him against the hard edge of his bedroom doorframe. He was taller than her, but she was still pretty tall for her age—the impact sent Roger reeling. “ _A Dhia!”_ he gasped. "Brianna, why are ye—"

Brianna tried to slip past him, not wanting to answer any snoopy questions. Unfortunately for her, Roger had reflexes to match her own, and his arms were longer. He caught her wrist before she could get away. “What the devil d'ye think you're doing?” he demanded.

“Nothing!” Bree struggled in his grip—the shock of barreling into him had distracted her a bit from her fears, but she knew it would only be a couple of seconds before the panic came flooding back. “Let me go!”

“Why? What’s so urgent... are ye hungry, lass?” Roger glanced at the stairwell. “Ye dinna need to run—I can fetch ye a wee snack, if ye'd like. I ken where the Reverend hides the chocolate.”

“I can get it myself!”

"It’s past your bedtime—the Reverend might—”

Brianna squirmed harder at the mention of the Reverend, and Roger’s grip slackened. She still couldn't wrench herself free, but she knew it was a sign that he was listening.

He tugged her a bit closer and knelt down so he could look her eye-to-eye. That was what grown-ups did when they wanted to seem less threatening, Brianna knew; it was what all the social workers had done when they wanted to give her bad news.

Roger studied her face closely. “Are ye frightened?” he asked.

“No!” Brianna said defensively.

Roger raised one eyebrow—his hair was even darker than Daddy's, so Bree could see his expression clearly even though the lights were off. There was something so familiar about, something she couldn't quite explain, and it almost made her want to laugh, but laughing felt awful when she was also trying not to cry.

Roger could see the emotions warring on her face. He sighed. “Aye, ye _are_ frightened,” he said. “D’ye want to… er… talk... about it?”

He looked very apprehensive— he _was_ an awkward teenager, after all, so talking presumably wasn't his strong suit. Brianna couldn't help but smile. “No,” she said again. “But I still want to go downstairs.”

“Why?”

“Because—” She hesitated. The Reverend and Mrs. Graham were still talking in the kitchen downstairs, but their voices were lower, their fury tempered. That was so much more dangerous than loud fighting. Loudness meant their anger was out in the open, where everyone could see it. It was only when Mama and Daddy fought under their breaths that something worse was building. And when they finally exploded...

Roger watched as Brianna's gaze flickered in the direction of the stairwell. Finally, he understood what was wrong. “Oh,” he said. He let go of her wrist and ran his fingers through his hair, troubled. “Please... dinna worry about them. They bicker sometimes; everyone does. Mrs. Graham will serve her famous meat pies at breakfast tomorrow, and all will be well, I promise.”

Brianna tried to give him a menacing glare, but it didn’t work well when her lower lip was trembling. “They’re still… angry,” she whispered.

Roger paused to consider this. Then, he stood up very slowly. “Aye,” he said, resigned. “Let’s go have a talk wi’ them, then, shall we? Ye’ll no get a wink of sleep otherwise.”

* * *

The Reverend and Mrs. Graham stopped arguing the moment they saw Roger and Bree making their way down the stairs. Actually, they stopped _everything—_ their eyes went wide as saucers, and they stared at Brianna like they frightened deer and she was a car. Even though Brianna wanted to stare back the way Mama would have done, she couldn’t find it in herself to try. The Reverend and Mrs. Graham were trying to hide the fighting. That meant they were talking about _her._

It was _her_ fault.

Roger cleared his throat. “Er—Miss Brianna just wanted to make sure all was well down here,” he said. “She could hear the two of ye from her bedroom.”

There was a note of accusation in his voice. Brianna heard it, and so did the Reverend—he bowed his head. “Aye,” he said, exchanging a glance with Mrs. Graham. “Aye, no doubt we worried her a bit. I’m sorry, lassie—we shouldn’t have troubled ye so. Let's get ye back to bed.”

That wasn’t at all what Brianna wanted to hear. 

She swallowed hard, willing herself not to burst into tears. The pressure was there, lodged in her throat; tears had already welled in her eyes, and she blinked furiously to keep them from spilling down her cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” Mrs. Graham asked, taking a tentative step forward. “Is it—”

Brianna shook her head. _No, no, don’t be nice to me! If you're nice I'll cry, and I don’t want to cry, so don't be nice, but also don't be mean..._

Roger coughed. “It’s the fighting that’s bothering her, no' the noise,” he said pointedly. “I think she’d feel better if ye were honest with her. Don't ye think?”

Mrs. Graham looked to the Reverend triumphantly.

The old man sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Well…” he said wearily. “See... it’s rather complicated, is all."

“Complicated,” Brianna repeated.

“Aye. It’s to do wi’ your parents, but—” He faltered. “D’ye ken how, on television sometimes, the grown-up characters will have stories they dinna show on screen, like—”

“STOP!” Brianna bellowed.

The Reverend looked startled. "Excuse me?"

“No!” Brianna's face was getting hot, and she knew her cheeks would be flushed as red as her hair soon—Mama used to call it her _Fraser look._ Brianna assumed that was the British way of saying she looked like a cross between a fryer and a braizer. She certainly _felt_ like she had hot oil bubbling inside her right now. “Stop _doing_ that! Stop dumbing things down for me like I’m a baby! I'm not a baby! I know you’re fighting, and I know what that means, and I just want you to _stop!”_

“Brianna,” Roger murmured.

Bree ignored him. “So just _st_ _op_ it,” she said. To her horror, her anger was turning rapidly into despair, and she couldn’t keep from sniffling as she tried to hold back her tears. “Please… I don’t _want_ this.”

Nobody knew what to say—not the Reverend, not Mrs. Graham, and certainly not Roger—and they stood there in stunned silence as Brianna finally started to sob.

Mrs. Graham was the first person to figure out something to say. In future years, when she was all grown up and had kids of her own, Brianna would look back on that night and wonder how different her life would be if the Reverend had spoken first, or if Roger had had the presence of mind to escort Brianna back upstairs.

Mrs. Graham took Brianna's hand. "Brianna," she whispered. "Have ye ever visited a place called Culloden Moor?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for all your encouraging comments on my first chapter! I wanted to reply to all of them, but only got to the first few. Please know that I read every single one, and I'm so grateful for everyone's kindness.


	3. A Week or More Till Samhain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brianna takes a look at two very different family histories.

Mama and Daddy were married in this manse. Reverend Wakefield had a few photos from the reception tucked away; he hadn’t been able to do the ceremony itself, since he wasn’t Catholic, but he'd been there. He'd seen that the two of them were very much in love.

Brianna had never seen these photos before. Actually, she hadn't seen _any_ photos of Mama and Daddy together except for the ones she took the year she wanted to be a news reporter. As she sat on the Reverend’s sofa, she marveled at how different Claire and Frank Randall had looked before the war happened; they were younger, of course, and Mama looked even younger-er than Daddy. Almost as young as some of the students Bree had seen Daddy teach at Harvard.

“Well, she _was_ ,” the Reverend said when Bree voiced these thoughts out loud. He pointed at Mama’s face, frozen in a black-and-white version of the past. “She couldna have been more than eighteen years old when this was taken. Mr. Randall is near ten years her senior, ye ken.” He paused, searching for the right words. “People... _change,_ Brianna. Especially the young ones. Especially when they go to war.”

So maybe that explained it. Maybe that was how people could lose sight of each other so quickly. Brianna scrutinized every detail of her mother’s teenage face—she tried to figure out what else had changed besides Claire Beauchamp’s cheeks and the length of her hair. Eighteen still seemed very grown-up to Brianna, and from what she could tell, Mama’s looks hadn’t changed _that_ much.

No, there was a more important difference between Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp and Claire Randall.

Brianna’s heart skipped a beat when she realized—it wasn’t that Mama herself had changed. Not really. What was different was the way she and Daddy looked at each other. The photo was faded by the passing of decades, and it was all black-and-white of course, but Bree could still see the shine of complete trust in her mother’s wide eyes, the hopeful glow of her smile as she gazed up at her new husband.

Somewhere along the line, Mama stopped being able to trust like that. And maybe Daddy stopped trusting her, too. Bree wanted to believe it was because of World War II; that would've been a simple solution, and it would have meant that her parents’ arguments weren’t _because_ of anyone. It was just the war. And the war had changed everyone, not just Mama and Daddy.

But Mrs. Graham insisted it was something else entirely. Something unbelievable and complicated. She started by telling Brianna about this battle called Culloden, which happened like two hundred whole years ago, but then the story started being about Mama, and someone named Randall, just like Daddy, but _not_ Daddy, which was super confusing. Bree tried her best to follow along, but none of it made any sense. From the look on Roger’s face, he was just as baffled as she was.

Eventually, the Reverend raised a hand to quiet his housekeeper, and shuffled off to fetch Brianna’s parents’ wedding photos from his file cabinet. He sat next to Bree and passed each photo to her, one after the other, giving her time to inspect all the details. “So, ye see?” he asked quietly. “D'ye see that they loved each other very much?”

Brianna nodded, swallowing.

“And ye ken they loved you even more?”

Another nod.

“Well then.” The Reverend glanced at Mrs. Graham. “There's a document ye'll maybe want to see.”

* * *

The "document" wasn't a printed legal thing like Brianna expected, but instead a hand-inked family tree, neatly sprawled on a thick sheet of creamy vellum paper. _Brianna’s_ family tree. She knew the Reverend used to work with Daddy, and Daddy had always loved genealogy, especially his own. There were probably lots of Randall-related charts in this place.

Bree remembered seeing Daddy’s old family Bible back in Boston now and again. It had generations of names listed on the first page—a distinguished line of Randalls, all leading down to Daddy—Franklin Wolverton— and to Bree herself.

Brianna knew all those names. One time, she'd even tried to memorize them, though she gave up when she realized how many Alexanders and Franklins there were. She knew the oldest people's names, at least, and could remember Daddy's parents and grandparents, too. _Denys, Mary, Jonathan, another Mary, a couple of Franklins..._

But none of them were on this tree.

Instead, there were dozens of unfamiliar names and titles, and more branches in each generation, plus more marriages, and more criss-crossed lines. This was not the familiar tree that Brianna knew and loved. Even though Brianna's name was at the bottom like always, the label at the top didn't say Beauchamp-Randall like it should have. It said Beauchamp… _Fraser._

Brianna frowned, scanning the page. “No, this isn’t right,” she said. “This isn’t the right tree. Look up there— there are MacKenzies on it. Isn't that Roger's dad's name? You have us mixed up somehow!”

“No, this is the right tree," Mrs. Graham insisted. "Have a look at the names in your grandparents' generation, will ye?"

Brianna didn’t want to... but for some reason she did it anyway. It was sort of like when Daddy talked about the politicians he saw in the news, and Bree knew that listening would upset her, but that just made her more curious about what was going on in the world.

“Henry Beauchamp, Julia Beauchamp,” she whispered aloud. “Died 1923, when Mama was five. And Brian Fraser and Ellen… oh.”

_Brianna... Ellen... Fraser._

“Aye,” the Reverend murmured, sagging a bit into his seat. “You’re named for them, according to your mam.”

“But—but I don’t even know these people!" Brianna exclaimed. "I’ve never heard any of these names before.” Her cheeks flushed as she studied the older ones: Colum, Dougal, Jocasta… someone named “Red Jacob,” and a weird Simon guy who had like, half a dozen wives… _none_ of them were familiar.

But the fact was, even if she refused to admit it, she _did_ recognize one name. _Fraser._ Every time Brianna saw it, Mama’s exasperated voice echoed in her ears" _There’s no point trying to reason with you when you’ve wearing your Fraser look, my darling!_

Things were starting to make too much sense. And even though she'd spent the past month wishing everyone around her would tell the truth, Brianna was starting to wonder if she'd have been better off staying a kid.

“The name beside your mother's," Mrs. Graham said. "James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser— he was your father. Your _real_ father. He—”

The Reverend coughed. “Mr. Randall was Brianna’s real father, Mrs. Graham,” he said, his voice sharper than usual. “Blood or no—he loved her. And she was his.”

“Oh aye, aye, of course," Mrs. Graham said, waving her hand impatiently. “But Jamie Fraser—”

“Jamie?” Brianna said. Her hands had started trembling; she tried not to notice it, but her voice was shaking, too, and that was harder to ignore. “Why not _James?_ It says James here, doesn’t it? Jamie’s a nickname. Why would you have a nickname for this man? Did you _know_ him?”

Mrs. Graham hesitated. “Well, no," she said. "We havena ever met, but...”

Brianna squinted at the unfamiliar, way-too-long name that was linked to her mother's with a dotted line. “It says he died _circa late 18th century!_ "

“It’s a bit out of date,” Mrs. Graham admitted.

“Out of _date?_ Two hundred years?!”

“Well— well aye! It's always two hundred years in the stories, ye ken? The tales of the Auld Ones."

“What are you even _talking_ about?” 

There was a pause.

“There is a place—up on a hill, no' far from here—a fairy’s place called Craigh Na Dun,” Mrs. Graham said, her words speeding up as she tried to explain. “It’s a special sort of opening, where people— _some_ people—can go places through the standing stones. Places long past."

“What… like... time travel?" Brianna scowled at the old housekeeper.. "Like some sort of science fiction _fairy tale?_ How dumb do you think I am?"

“Mrs. Graham, dinnae rile the lass,” the Reverend said warningly.

Roger, who’d stayed virtually silent this whole time, finally raised his head to look questioningly at his adopted father. "The dun," he said. "Craigh Na Dun... the stone circle?"

Brianna had expected him to be annoyed by all this nonsense— he was a very logical person, for a teenager. But to her surprise, he looked like he was finally figuring something out, and he was actually interested, much to her chagrin. “Mrs. Graham, you and Fiona ken those druid dancers, do ye no? The lassies who keep track of equinoxes and the like?"

“Aye!" Mrs. Graham seemed grateful to finally have someone who understood what she was saying. “The druid dancers hand our traditions down through generations."

"The equinoxes,” Brianna interrupted. “Old ones... did you say _druids_?” She looked between Roger and Mrs. Graham, then Mrs. Graham and the Reverend, torn between outrage and despair. Were they being serious? Were they insane? Who on Earth would _joke_ at a time like this— and who could be crazy enough to think it wasn’t a joke?

Mrs. Graham was the sort of person who believed that people’s palms could be reflections of their lives, so maybe she came up with this; maybe she managed to convince the Reverend somehow, and then they raised Roger not to question them when they jabbered on about fairies and time travel and _make-believe!_

Not for the first time, Brianna felt horribly trapped in this big, old house, with these strange, old people. She didn’t have anything left to say. She couldn’t think of anything else to _do._ She balled her hands into fists and jumped off the sofa, storming towards the stairs and stomping the whole way to her bedroom.

She slammed the door shut, but the bang wasn’t nearly as loud as she needed it to be.

* * *

_People change. Especially the young ones... especially when they go to war._

Brianna felt like she’d just been through a battle. But she didn’t feel young at all. Not anymore. Once her "Fraser mood" wore off, she realized why.

She had to be a grown-up, now.

Young people fought each other, and babies threw tantrums. But Brianna wasn't going to make the same mistake Mama had made—she wasn't going to be young in the middle of a war. She went to the mirror by her desk and smoothed out her hair, taking slow, deep breaths.

When she returned downstairs to confront Mrs. Graham and the Wakefields, she walked very slowly, trying to look as dignified as a queen.

Her questions were laid out in her head as they all settled around the dining table. “My mother,” she said slowly. “Did she really… _believe..._ that the stones took her back in time?”

Roger and the Reverend glanced at each other; they couldn't answer this one. But Mrs. Graham folded her hands and offered Brianna a weak smile. “Aye,” she said. “Aye, she did. It would be difficult not to—she spent over two years in the eighteenth century, after all."

Brianna swallowed the hysterical urge to laugh. _Pretend that this is serious,_ she reminded herself. _That's_ _what a grown-up would do._

“I see,” she said carefully. “And Mama met this… _Jamie…_ when she traveled back?”

“Aye, she did.”

“And she married him? Even though Daddy was—” Bree hesitated. “Well, I guess Daddy wasn’t technically alive if he wasn’t born. But—but he was still _there,_ wasn't he? Sort of! Mama knew he existed!”

“Mrs. Randall didna want to marry James Fraser,” Mrs. Graham explained hastily. “Not at first. But over time, they fell in love, so deeply that your mam decided to stay wi’ her new family in Scotland once she'd told Jamie the truth."

“Why would she marry someone if she didn't want to?”

Mrs. Graham grimaced. “’Twas arranged," she said.

“An _arranged marriage_ _?"_ Brianna gaped at Roger and Reverend Wakefield, their historians-in-residence. “People actually did that in colonial times?”

“Oh, aye,” Roger said, relieved to finally have some helpful information. “It was usually diplomatic—in the Highlands, clan chieftains would arrange marriages to seal alliances between families, particularly when their land holdings bordered more—”

“It wasna like that.” Mrs. Graham waved him off dismissively. “Jamie Fraser married Claire to protect her. There was a man who wanted to hurt her, ye ken. A man—” She faltered, glancing at the Reverend. “Well, it was a man named Randall, actually; one of Mr. Frank Randall's ancestors. He looked a fair bit like Frank, according to your mam.”

“And this old-timey Randall wanted to hurt Mama?” Brianna couldn’t believe it. Her family were good people—Daddy had told her so! They were of good breeding, and they all had honorable records and careers...

But then again, Daddy was a Randall, and he was in jail, wasn't he?

Brianna shook her head, trying to keep herself calm. “Okay, okay,” she said, pressing her shaking hands flat against the tabletop. “So, Mama fell in love with Jamie Fraser, and she decided to stay. But apparently she didn’t stay, or I wouldn't be here! If she really loved him, why would she—?”

“Culloden,” Mrs. Graham and Roger said in unison.

Reverend Wakefield let out a long, slow sigh.

Brianna was stunned. _The_ _battle._ So Mama had been changed by a war after all… just not the one Bree actually knew about.

“She thought that Jamie was dead," Mrs. Graham said softly. "She took ye back to Frank, wanting ye to have a family, and she tried her best to forget, but... she was devastated. I saw it wi' my own eyes."

“She thought he was dead," Brianna mumbled. "But he’s not, is he? He can't be.” _Between hope of her mother’s return and the safety of a parent she’d never known._ “Did Daddy know?”

The Reverend nodded. “Aye,” he said quietly. “He sent me a letter just over a month ago. He didna ken what to do.”

And what could he have done? What _did_ he do? 

That was a question even the police didn't know how to answer.

Brianna barely even noticed that the room had gone silent around her. Her thoughts were too loud, and they were hurtling around inside her skull like an increasingly dizzying merry-go-round; Mama, Daddy, Mama, another Randall, Mama, _James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie—_

“Ahem,” Mrs. Graham said tentatively.

“ _What?”_ Brianna said hoarsely.

“Perhaps… well, would ye like to see it? Craigh Na Dun?”

“Mrs. Graham!" the Reverend snapped. “Dinna be tryin’ to—”

“It is _her_ choice, is it no?” the housekeeper insisted. “The lass should see the stones, at least. She might not even be able to hear their call. And it’s no’ Samhain yet, so... if, eventually, she chooses—”

“Chooses _what?”_ Brianna cried, her voice finally breaking. _"_ Chooses _time_ _travel?"_

There was a pause.

“…we still have time,” Mrs. Graham finished. She glanced at the window, where the skies had turned the gray of an approaching November. “There's a week or more till Samhain, yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! This chapter may have been a bit slow to read, but I promise things will pick up in the next installment.
> 
> This was partly inspired by the Scottish festival scenes in Book 4, when Roger gives Brianna some old photos he found while cleaning out the Reverend's manse. I always love getting more insight into what Claire was like before she became a nurse/married Frank, so those scenes are some of my favorite parts of "Drums of Autumn."
> 
> (Oh, and I'm thinking I might try to convert my general writeblr to a fanfic blog... so go follow me on Tumblr @theTelltaleNarrator, if you'd like!)


	4. The Screaming Stones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brianna makes her decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of a transition/buffer chapter... it's really, really short, but I promise Chapter Five will be out soon!

The Reverend had been worried that The Decision would be difficult for someone as young as Brianna. But in reality, Bree reflected as she packed her belongings into her small leather pack, being a kid probably made the decision easier. She didn't need to get caught up in all the philosophical stuff. And anyway, she'd always been pragmatic by nature.

All she had to do was weigh the pros and cons.

20th century pro: television…

20th century con: most people in the Highlands didn’t actually _own_ televisions.

18th century pro: fancy hats…

18th century con: fancy _dresses._

20th century pro: she might get to do real science experiments in the fifth grade…

20th century con: Daddy was probably going to be in prison until he died.

_Daddy. Prison. Mama… gone._

Brianna did her best to focus on the little things... the _real_ things, like plumbing and horses and TV and corsets. But her thoughts always drifted back to her parents, no matter how hard she tried to stay logical and calculating.

_Logical._

Daddy was locked up. And if Mama could come back—if she _wanted_ to come back—she would have done it by now. So it didn’t matter if Brianna had never met this “Jamie Fraser,” or that she didn’t _know_ him.

She’d learned the hard way that she didn’t actually know Mama or Daddy, either.

Brianna had the pros, and she had the cons. Her decision was simple, even if it hurt. She tried to be a grown-up, biting her lip hard as she stuffed Mrs. Graham’s hand-sewn gowns into her bag. She bit until she almost tasted blood. _Grown-ups weren’t supposed to cry._ She repeated that to herself, over and over and over again, knowing this would all hurt less if she could be an adult about it.

The unfair thing was, she was still supposed to be a kid. So no matter how hard she gulped, the tears still came and choked her, and no one was there to hug her like Mama should have been.

* * *

Samhain—which, Brianna learned, was just Scottish-talk for Halloween—was cold. Boston got cold at this time of year, too, but there was something different about this dark autumn night. Mrs. Graham had bundled Brianna in several layers of old woolen cloaks before tucking her in the back seat of the Reverend’s automobile, but she still shivered straight through the slow, tedious drive up to Craigh Na Dun. Roger didn’t seem to care about the weather... but then again, he’d been excited about this for weeks; the anticipation was probably distracting him from the chill. He was the one who did all the research… an _annoying_ amount of research, really. He didn't seem nervous at all.

Maybe it was because he didn’t remember his biological parents, and he was old enough that, even if he didn’t come through the stones with her, he’d probably leave the Reverend’s manse soon anyway. He was almost an adult. If anyone was truly upset about his departure, it was the Reverend, whose home would probably seem very big and empty without his nephew blundering about.

The old man had hardly spoken since Mrs. Graham brought the noisy opal to the house as a "test." She said that she couldn’t hear it, and neither could the Reverend; Brianna almost didn't believe them. She and Roger both winced when it came near, and when they passed it around, it was _hot._ Hotter than a stone in winter should ever be.

And then, there was the noise. That horrible, ghoulish, indescribable noise.

Brianna didn’t want to think about what the actual standing stones would be like. Up until she saw (and heard) that opal, she hadn’t fully believed that Mrs. Graham wasn’t just a delusional old lady who had read too many romance books. But the opal's buzzing wasn’t any ordinary noise—it was like screaming. Too many voices to count, too many souls—people who hadn’t got to where they needed to be. That thought alone was enough to make Brianna gag, and she had to press her forehead against the cold, foggy window of the Reverend's car to steady herself.

It was too much. As the car crawled closer and closer to Craigh Na Dun, Brianna heard the noise again, and she could feel it tugging her, like it was calling her—no, not calling. _Clawing._ She could not stop it from taking her. And from the way Roger stiffened in his seat, she knew he felt that awful dread, too—

The dread that was not destiny, but inevitability.

Despite it all, she knew she didn’t want to turn back.

She didn't. She couldn't. She and Roger had their leather traveling bags, their ancient-looking compass, a map leading to a place called “Lallybroch.” Roger had a list of names in hand: an abbreviated version of the Fraser family tree that Bree had puzzled over weeks earlier. He was wearing ridiculous breeches and a blouse that looked like it belonged to a pirate. She wore a dress, and had a feeling in her chest that could, charitably, be called “nervousness.”

She took Roger’s hand as they got out of the car, and Mrs. Graham pressed a single ruby into each of their palms. It was too dark for Bree to see the look on the old housekeeper’s face, and too windy to hear what she said as she nudged the two of them towards the stones. Bree could barely even see Roger, whose cap was pulled down over his ears; it was too dark, too foggy, too cold.

And the stones screamed.

Brianna squeezed her eyes shut, and she clung to Roger, and she thought of Mama, loving arms outstretched to catch her, to hold her close as she plunged into the unknown.


	5. Lallybroch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger and Brianna make their way home.

Roger refused to stop gaping at trees and taking notes in his journal like an investigative reporter. Brianna wanted to tell him to stop, but she was too tired to bother. Besides, he wasn’t doing any harm. If he thought their meandering path through the heather was worth writing a novel about, then so be it.

Personally, Brianna didn’t see why the _lack_ of a highway was remotely noteworthy.

With Roger busy being a historian, Bree found herself in charge of following the map to Lallybroch. She didn’t really mind it. When she was little, Daddy sometimes took her on hiking trips, he always let her act as their navigator. He even let her draw her own map once, despite the fact that the visitors' center had plenty of professional ones available. Brianna remembered the warmth in his expression when he looked down at her, the way his eyes would crinkle at the corners when he smiled. He’d insisted on telling her about all the boring history behind mapmaking—astrolabes, measurement units, all that stuff. Brianna had pretended to listen, and now her stomach hurt at the thought of never being bored by him again.

There was a part of her that wanted to believe that Frank Randall had been preparing her for this all along; that those trips were to teach her the skills she'd need in the 18th century. That Daddy still had everything under control. That this was all part of some big plan that would make sense in the end.

She wanted so badly for her life to make sense.

Even with her extensive hiking experience, Brianna was surprised at how long and boring the walk to Lallybroch felt. She almost twisted her ankle at least half a dozen times, but Roger, enamored as he was by the lack of roads, managed to catch her every time. Plus, he gave her sandwiches whenever she got hungry. And when they finally stopped to rest for the night, he let her curl up in her cloak while he made the fire and set up camp.

Bree fell asleep before she could thank him. When he woke her up the next morning, he'd already tidied everything up, too. He offered her some water from his canteen, and more importantly, a kind smile.

Two more hills, a few lopsided cottages, and suddenly—almost _too_ suddenly—there was Lallybroch.

Bree’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of the big house. It was like a castle… maybe with fewer towers, but still made of stone, tall and sturdy. It looked like the kind of place that would be there forever... vaguely, Brianna wondered if it still existed—or, _would_ still exist—in her own time. If it had been there all along, watching over her, waiting for her to find her way home.

To her surprise, she was actually kind of comforted by the thought of a silent, solemn guardian house.

Though she’d been twitchy and irritable for most of the morning, Bree found herself relaxing as they drew closer to the stone arch marking the entrance of Lallybroch. There was something safe and secure about this place. “Roger?” she whispered. “Do you think he’ll be here?” _My father?_

Roger shook his head. “I dinna ken,” he whispered back. “The records your fa— _Frank_ found were pamphlets from Edinburgh which won’t be printed till a few years from now.”

“But Jamie Fraser's family lives here? My… aunt. And cousins.” The words felt foreign in Brianna’s mouth, more so than any of the halting Gaelic she’d managed to pick up from Roger. Mama and Daddy were both only children. She had some second cousins, and some distantly removed aunts in Australia… but she’d never met them, so they only existed as abstract ghosts, tucked away in the back of her mind.

What would it be like to have _cousins?_ Were they younger than her? Or older?

Would they have red hair?

Brianna shook her head. No use wondering when the answers to her questions were less than twenty feet away.

“Hallo? Can I help you?”

A tall, well-dressed figure was striding towards them, adjusting his gloves and frowning imperiously at the bedraggled pair in front of him. Brianna tugged self-consciously at the strap of her leather purse. “Hello,” she said.

This man wasn’t Jamie Fraser. For one thing, he didn't look anything like Brianna— actually, he almost looked like Mama, with his dark mop of curly hair and delicate brow. More importantly, he definitely wasn’t Scottish.

He sounded French. Wasn’t Mama’s family French, too?

Brianna shook those distracting thoughts away. “Are you, uh... Ian Murray?” she asked, her mind snatching at the first name she remembered from the Fraser family tree.

“Eh? Of course I am not.” The man squinted at her suspiciously. “What business do you have with _monsieur?”_

Roger responded before Brianna could, fumbling with his list of names. “Colum, Dougal,” he muttered, scanning the list. “Ye canna be much older than myself, eh? Not James Murray… Fergus, perhaps?”

The man’s eyes widened, and he adjusted his glove again. No, it wasn’t a glove—Brianna realized with a start that he had a hook instead of a left hand. Like a _pirate._ Had he been born without a hand, or had he lost it in a battle?

Like Culloden?

The young man called "Fergus" squared his shoulders, looking even more defensive than before. “Where did you come from?” he asked. He sized Roger up, before letting his gaze fall on Brianna.

Something—a flicker of recognition, maybe—lit his eyes. “Maybe... Leoch?” he said. “You look like…”

“Leoch?” Roger was still scrutinizing his name list. “Oh, Leoch! Are we MacKenzies, d’ye mean?”

“Are you?”

Roger nodded, finally looking up from his documents. “Aye,” he said. “I’m Roger MacKenzie, and this—” He looked down at Brianna, the corner of his mouth turning up. “ _This_ braw lassie is—”

“ _IAN!_ ” A shrill voice rang through the courtyard. “Ian Murray, ye wee devil, where have ye run off to? Dinna think ye can get away this time— when your faither hears about what ye've done, he'll have your _hide!"_

The source of the voice was a small, dark-haired woman, not much taller than Bree. She looked a bit older than Mama, and just as stubborn. She stormed halfway down the front steps before spotting Roger and Bree. She froze. “Fergus, lad?” she said. “Who have ye got there?”

“Ah! Madame!” Fergus turned quickly, color rising in his cheeks. “May I introduce… ah…”

He trailed off, at a loss for words. _Madame,_ momentarily distracted from whatever “Wee Ian” was getting up to, crept closer, frowning warily. She looked Roger up and down. “Weel,” she said, narrowing her eyes speculatively. “ _You_ have the look of the MacKenzies, right enough. Must be from Leoch—ye’re dark as my uncle Dougal was as a lad. And—”

Her gaze landed on Brianna.

Again, there was that flash of recognition Bree had seen in Fergus' eyes… but it was stronger in this woman’s expression, and it wasn't just surprise or curiosity... the dark-haired woman looked rather shocked. Like she’d just caught a glimpse of a ghost.

“Oh my,” she said. “And what might your name be, then?”

It was a simple enough question, but for some reason, the answer caught in Brianna’s throat. She opened and shut her mouth like a stunned fish, then looked to Roger, helpless.

“Go on, lassie,” Roger encouraged her.

Brianna gulped and drew a deep breath. She forced herself to look the dark-haired woman in the eye, steeling herself for what she saw—a deep, crystal blue gaze that matched her own. The woman literally took a step back; she was as stunned to see those eyes as Bree was.

“My name is Brianna... Ellen… Fraser,” Brianna said. She squared her shoulders— _be brave, be brave, be brave!_

“My mother—my mother is gone. She’s—I don’t know where she is. But my father, he’s—”

“James Fraser,” the woman murmured. She shook her head, exhaling shakily—Brianna realized that her eyes had turned glassy with tears. “Oh, Jamie lad, I should’ve known... ye brave wee fool...”

Roger perked up at that. “James Fraser?” he said. “Did ye say—oh, aye, ye must be Janet Fraser Murray! Is that right?” He glanced at Fergus, who was still standing frozen in place with his mouth half-open. “You called her _Madame_.”

The dark-haired woman— _Aunt Jenny—_ managed to pull herself together in the span of a single deep breath. She smiled down at Brianna, not bothering to hide the emotion that still threatened to overwhelm her. “Brianna Ellen,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her bosom. “Oh, you bonnie lass. Come inside, will ye no?” She paused, letting out a tearful laugh. “My husband willna believe his eyes!”

* * *

The big house felt more like a _home_ than any other place Brianna had been. The Reverend’s manse had been big, too, but it had felt empty no matter what Mrs. Graham did with the décor. Lallybroch should have felt even hollower and colder—it was literally made of solid stone!

But the hearth exuded the kind of warmth that couldn’t be made with fire alone. And—perhaps more importantly—there were at least half a dozen kids of varying sizes scampering around the place.

The first child they encountered was the elusive Wee Ian, a birdy little boy with scruffy, light brown hair. He came barreling down the hall, but skidded to a halt, mortified at the sight of his mother. He was quickly distracted by the presence of Brianna and Roger. “Ma,” he said, homely brown eyes going round. “Is that Granny’s _painting?”_

Auntie Jenny sighed, cuffing her son’s ear in exasperation. “Does she _look_ like a painting to ye?” she said. She glanced at Brianna—she looked proud, Bree thought. "This is Brianna… your cousin.”

Wee Ian blinked a few times, then seemed to accept this without a second thought. “Oh aye,” he said solemnly. “Well, seeing as we’ve company, I dinna suppose—”

“Oh, ye’ll get your thrashing soon enough,” Auntie Jenny said sternly. She pointed in the direction of the yard, though Brianna noticed the corner of her mouth starting to twitch. “And it’ll be double if ye dinna tell your father where ye hid Bran and the other hounds!”

Wee Ian’s face crumpled. “But Ma!” he wailed. “Da said I could have a dog of my own, and I only wanted to practice before so that—”

“Oh, aye,” Jenny interrupted him, “ye can explain it to him in due course. Go wait in the usual place—your da will meet ye there.”

Wee Ian slumped and, casting one last resentful look at his mother, trudged away. Auntie Jenny shook her head. “Christ, that sweet, stubborn lad,” she sighed as soon as he was out of earshot.

The other children—all of whom were older than Wee Ian— had begun to gather behind the nearby sofa, eyes wide. Ian still wore the last traces of babyhood in his chubby cheeks, and his older sister—a dark haired girl who took after Jenny—wasn’t much bigger than he was. There were so many of them, Brianna thought in excitement and dismay. What was she going to do with all this...

 _Family?_

* * *

There were so many names, and Brianna was determined to learn every single one within the week. There was James Murray, known to all as Young Jamie, Jenny’s eldest son… then there were Maggie and Katherine, his younger sisters, as well as Young Janet, who was named after Jenny. Lots of people were named after each other here, Bree reflected.

Including her.

The older Ian Murray had left for the village earlier than expected that day, so he wasn’t present to give the younger Ian his “thrashing.” The tiny boy seemed very pleased by this development, though he agreed to tell his mother where he’d sequestered the family dogs (inside the empty dovecote, which was now in feathery ruins). Jenny assigned Fergus to keep an eye on his adoptive little brother, and Roger joined them eagerly, no doubt planning a host of intrusive historical questions.

Aunt Jenny put her arm around Brianna, squeezing her close and ushering her upstairs. “And you, _a nighean,_ ” she whispered. "I’ve something to show ye."

_The paintings._

Brian and Ellen Fraser were dead, according to Jenny—a shadow passed over her eyes at the thought. Bree hadn’t expected to feel terribly sad about it, herself… after all, she hadn’t had living grandparents in her own time, either. But when she saw the portraits hanging in the upstairs hallway, a strange sense of loss hit her like a punch to the stomach.

_Ellen MacKenzie Fraser_

Brianna saw herself reflected in those sharp, beautiful eyes, that red hair. But more than that, she found herself staring into the eyes of a woman who painted beautiful, expressive portraits of the people she loved most. There was one of Jenny with a flock of doves, and one with two little redheaded boys and a huge hound—

 _So that’s where I get it from,_ Brianna thought with a jolt of recognition. Neither Mama nor Daddy could draw, but she could. She had a natural eye for drawing. And _this_ was why.

Art was in her blood, a gift passed down to her by a grandmother she’d never get to meet.

Aunt Jenny gazed at the portrait of the boys. “Ye look like him, ye know,” she said to Brianna, reaching to touch the younger boy’s chin with her finger.

“Him,” Brianna echoed. _“Jamie.”_

“Aye.” Jenny smiled, and there was a sadness in her eyes that made Bree’s heart lodge in her throat.

Auntie Jenny took a deep breath. “So,” she said. “Would ye like me to tell ye where he is?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my favorite chapter to write so far! Brianna's reaction to the paintings is an abridged version of the scene from "Drums of Autumn." 
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


	6. A Place Called Helwater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, it's been a while, hasn't it? Sorry for the wait. I hope you enjoy this installment...

Brianna’s new father— her _real_ father— was on parole, according to Auntie Jenny. _Parole._ That meant Jamie Fraser was in jail, just like Frank Randall; Brianna wanted to bury herself in a hole and never come out again. Would she ever have a dad who _didn’t_ have a criminal record?

Aunt Jenny reassured her that Jamie was innocent. “Weel, not innocent forbye,” she admitted as she packed journeycakes and bannocks in a little cloth bundle for the road. “But he's convicted of a crime that shouldna be a crime in the first place,”

“Oh,” said Brianna, unconvinced.

“He sends letters now and again. We try to write back wi’ news of the crops, and the bairns.” She gave Bree a shrewd look. “You’ll be better news than all o’ that, no?”

Bree blushed, trying to convince herself that she _was_ better news than crops and bairns.

There'd been some disagreement over whether Brianna and Roger should stay at Lallybroch, and if so, for how long. Aunt Jenny thought it would be dangerous for the two of them to embark on a journey all the way to England, and rather a shock for Jamie himself. But Fergus dissented, in a very eloquent and French way, pointing out how cruel it would be to send Jamie a letter mentioning his long-lost daughter, and him still trapped far away. “We do not know how long it will be before _milord_ is able to return!” he exclaimed. "He would try to escape if he knew Miss Brianna was waiting. Wild horses could not keep him away!"

And beneath it all was the uneasy, unspoken question of Mama.

Aunt Jenny had asked about Claire, of course— they’d been close friends once. Sisters. The Murrays were all very gentle and hesitant to pry, sensing that her parents were a sensitive topic for Bree. But her silence made them anxious, especially Fergus. Brianna hadn’t thought much of it before, but she now realized that her Mama was sort of like Fergus’ mama, too— he called Jenny _madame_ and Uncle Ian _monsieur,_ and Jamie Fraser was _milord,_ but Bree could tell that those words truly meant _aunt, uncle,_ and _father_ to him. He was another lost child, a half-way orphan... like a brother. It made his hook hand seem a little less frightening.

And of course, Roger’s opinions were as clear as they were earnest. He wanted to go to this faraway estate called Helwater, if only to ask Lord Dunsany a bunch of annoying questions that might get them all arrested and/or burned for witchcraft. His suppressed excitement was as much a comfort to Bree as was her unspoken kinship with Fergus— there were people around her who understood what she felt, _and_ what needed to be done. Brianna wasn't the only grown-up anymore.

So when Auntie Jenny sent them off in a wagon with their journeycakes in hand, Fergus driving a horse called Donas up front, Brianna let herself cry. Just a little. Not so much that anyone could tell; it was raining, anyway, and she didn't make any noise.

* * *

“Helwater is a fairly large estate,” Roger explained as they drew closer to the big manor house. “Horses, servants, and the like. And noblemen.” He gazed ahead, looking a little distracted. “I dinna ken much about this region. D’ye think they’ll let me ask the master a few questions? For research, I mean.”

“I’d like to see you explain why,” Bree grumbled. “Are we _there_ yet?”

It was a useless question— she could see the house ahead, looming just down the hill. But _are-we-there-yet_ was what she’d always asked her parents when they went on long road trips, and the normalcy made her feel a bit better, even if memories of happiness ached a little, deep down.

Roger seemed to understand, and he didn’t bother answering her question— he peered up at the gates of the estate, emerald eyes sharp with interest. Helwater had a very fancy-looking house, all white stone and stairs and trellises with ivy climbing up to the windows... like a pale, austere version of Harvard, where Daddy sometimes let Brianna sit at his professor-y desk.

She pushed those memories away, swallowing the lump in her throat. No time for them. Not now.

Fergus dismounted when they reached the front of the house. There was a brown-bearded man in simple clothes clothes lounging about near the gates; he straightened up when he saw the incoming visitors, brushing dust from the front of his coat. “Sir?” he said uncertainly, looking Fergus up and down.

Fergus went to go speak with the man. Brianna felt frozen, and not just because of the chilly weather; Roger nudged her gently and helped her down from the wagon. “It’s all right,” he whispered, leaning down so she could hear. “That’s a servant, I think— maybe a groom. He’ll take care of the horses.”

“Oh,” Brianna said faintly. “Cool.”

She was wearing one of her cousin Maggie’s old dresses— it was well-worn and comfy, but the hem didn’t fall as low on Bree as it did on her more diminutive cousins. She tugged at her sleeves, suddenly feeling a little prickly. This place didn’t look like a prison, but it _felt_ oddly prison-ish, and she couldn’t quite figure out why. Maybe it was the imposing gates, or the quietude, or just how far away it seemed from anything else...

“Jeffries? Who are these people?” A sharp, clear voice rang out across the front lawn. Brianna looked up, startled, to see a dark-haired woman— no, not a woman, a teenager like Roger, but a very confident one— striding down the front steps. The girl’s eyes settled on Bree’s face for a fraction of a second longer than they should have.

“Visitors, milady,” the bearded man— Jeffries— said, taking off his cap and bowing.

“Visitors? Are we expecting company today?”

“No, milady. I was only—”

“Well, don’t keep them standing out here in the rain. The child is turning blue round the edges— what on earth is the matter with you?”

“Beggin' your pardon, milady, I—”

The dark-haired girl didn’t wait to hear the rest of Jeffries’ explanation, which seemed rather rude to Brianna. But the girl’s dress was prim and lacy, with little flowers on the fabric, and Bree had a feeling that this _milady_ was rich enough to not have to worry about things like politeness. Not towards grooms or servants, anyway. Not even towards Fergus, whom she’d apparently decided was _also_ a servant.

Before Brianna could say “let them eat cake,” she found herself standing in the entryway of the grand house, a little warmer and drier but not remotely at ease. The dark-haired milady summoned someone with a shout— a more polished version of Jeffries— who in turn went to fetch an old, fancy man, who came in with a wig and cane and another brown-haired girl on his heels.

“Papa!” said the new girl, eyes widening at the sight of Brianna. “Who is that? It looks like—”

"Yes, quite,” the old man interrupted her. His eyes were on Bree, too— his gaze was not unkind, but speculative nonetheless. “Geneva," he said to the first dark-haired girl, "will you take your sister upstairs? I believe your mother would appreciate some company in the sitting room. Oh, and Johnson,” he added, addressing the polished servant by the door. “Find MacKenzie for me, if you will.”

Geneva— the mean one— looked like she wanted to protest, and even let out a _hmph._ But she turned and flounced off without much argument, and her sister and Johnson the butler went, too. And then it was just Roger and Brianna, both feeling very small and very scruffy in the middle of this big, grand, echoey house.

The old man— Lord Dunsany— still had his eyes on Brianna. “I take it you’re looking for someone here?” he said politely.

“Yes, sir,” Roger answered. Normally, Brianna would’ve been annoyed at being spoken for, but this time she was grateful— she didn’t want to hear how young and helpless her voice sounded just now. “We’re looking for— oh, ah…”

Roger rummaged around in the deep pockets of his homespun coat, emerging with an envelope— a letter penned by Jenny Murray, explaining (so far as she knew) the circumstances of Brianna’s arrival, assuring the lord of the house that he would not be expected to provide for her upkeep— she only wanted to meet her father for the first time.

Fergus was carrying a smaller envelope in his sleeve, this addressed to Alex MacKenzie— James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser. It was from Jenny, too, a quick word of warning— they didn't want Jamie fainting dead away at the unexpected sight of his daughter.

Lord Dunsany read his letter, his pale brow creasing as his gaze traveled down the length of the page. “I see,” he said after a long, nerve-wracking stretch of silence. “Well, I don’t suppose there’s any harm in letting you see the fellow, is there?” He glanced at the front door, through which Johnson had recently vanished. “You’ve truly never met him before? Well, no, of course not— you’re clearly too young… so he’s never seen you, then, either…”

There was a sudden burst of chatter from just outside the door— Brianna recognized the rapid, flowing cadence of Fergus’ accented speech, along with a deeper, brisker voice. A Scottish voice. “What the devil are ye doing here?” said the deeper voice.

“Milord, I—”

“Does my sister ken you’re here? Does Dunsany— no, never mind. Ye must leave at once, do ye hear me? No one can know who ye are."

“Of course, milord, but—”

“It’s no’ that I’m not happy to see ye, mind— Christ, lad, ye’ve sprouted! But—”

_“Milord, listen!”_

There was a lull in the rapid conversation. Brianna’s heart leapt into her throat. _The letter._ Fergus must’ve given him— given her _father—_ the letter, the letter telling him she was here...

Bree knew she needed to keep calm and breathe. And she tried her best to _not_ be nervous or shaky or afraid, because this _wasn’t_ scary. Really, it wasn’t! It didn’t matter if Jamie Fraser was kind, or patient, or if he even _liked_ her or wanted her around, because Brianna already had a father, and his name was Frank Randall, and even if he'd had done all those horrible things the police thought he did, he was still Brianna's daddy, and he still loved her, even if James Fraser didn’t want her…

Brianna’s vision was starting to go white around the edges, and everything in the room sounded like it was moving further and further away— oh no, was she going to faint? Roger had a tight grip on her arm, which steadied her a little. _Deep breaths. Deep breaths, Bree!_

Fergus was speaking again, very softly—reassuringly. Brianna didn’t hear the deep Scottish voice respond, and she hoped that was a good sign. But maybe it meant he was angry. Maybe he wanted her to leave. Maybe…

The door opened.

_Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll have more on Claire in the next chapter!


End file.
